


good hunting.

by openended



Series: Advent Calendar 2012 [8]
Category: Sanctuary (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Gen, Hesitant Friendships, Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellen can spot a hunter and a fake name from miles away.  (Helen's not in these parts for anything good, that's for sure.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	good hunting.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Geonn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geonn/gifts).



> Geonn asked for _Helen Magnus and sneakers_. And, well, technically that is in here.

“On the house,” Ellen says, sliding a glass of the stranger’s preferred scotch across the bar. The woman’s staying at the roadhouse and Ellen’s been around the business long enough to know when a name’s fake. She leaves the roadhouse at dusk and comes back later each night, looking progressively worse. Tonight she’s sporting a scraped cheek and a dirt smudge on her forehead and she’s holding herself carefully, the way Ellen knows means some ribs have been kicked. 

She can spot a hunter from two miles off, but besides some unusual werewolf attacks lately, there isn’t anything in the area Ellen knows about that would call in an unknown. That alone is concerning.

The woman nods and Ellen steps around the bar to deliver another round of drinks to the table of hunters in the corner. The rest of the woman doesn’t look a whole lot better than the top half visible over the bar: sneakers covered in mud, though she made a passing attempt at scraping it off, and Ellen wonders what happened to the boots she’s been wearing the past nights; shirt hanging awkwardly under a jacket, obviously torn, and dark grass stains on the knees of her pants. She’s either new to hunting and hasn’t replaced her entire wardrobe with black yet, or she ran out of black clothes and had to make do with what she could find in town. Given how she’s expertly ignoring everyone else in the roadhouse and still paying attention to her surroundings, Ellen would put a lot of money on the latter.

She takes a chance. “What’re you looking for?”

“Excuse me?”

The Midwest accent’s fake, just like the name. “You didn’t get all that,” she gestures, “just out for a walk. What are you hunting?”

She frowns and then reaches into her jacket pocket and withdraws a piece of paper. 

Ellen unfolds the paper and looks at the symbol drawn on it. “You’re nuts. No one goes looking for this.” If either of them had any sense at all, they’d rip the paper to shreds and burn it. Maybe add some salt for good measure.

She smiles. “I do.”

“You’re a long way from home,” Ellen says. She’s dropped the accent; she’s a whole ocean away from home.

Finishing her drink, she reaches across the bar to retrieve her scrap of paper. “So is he.” She folds the paper again and sticks it back in her pocket.

At that, Ellen pours herself a drink, and refills the other woman’s glass. This requires drinking. “That is a mess of trouble. Why are you looking for it?”

“I’m looking for _him_ , because he’s escaped. Again.”

Ellen’s eyes narrow. Not only does no one go looking for that, no one actually captures it, either. She lowers her voice, though the men at the table are so drunk they’d barely be able to hit a werewolf ten feet in front of them. “You want to tell me your real name?” 

“Helen,” she says, and swallows a mouthful of scotch.

She’s not going to get anything else out of Helen, not a last name, not a location, nothing. And, though she’ll try, Ellen’s not going to find anyone anywhere who can tell her a damn thing about pretty brunette British hunter who goes looking for impossibly evil creatures. “Alright.” Ellen cracks a peanut shell into the bowl and tries to talk herself out of saying what she’s thinking. It doesn’t work. “You can’t catch that thing solo.” It’s fact. Helen strikes her as the competent brand of hunter, and she’s been coming back to the roadhouse looking steadily worse for five nights.

Helen blinks and stares at Ellen in the dim roadhouse light. “I work alone.”

Ellen shrugs; she doesn’t really want any part of this anyway. “Just tell me where to send your body.”

She shifts on the stool and tries to size up her potential cohort. Mostly she winces, bruises beginning to blossom on her ribs. “Are you offering your own help or theirs?” She nods her head in the direction of the other occupants.

“Mine.” This is a basket of crazy, but Helen’s going to get herself killed or worse if she doesn’t catch it soon.

“My rules,” Helen says. “The creature leaves with me, alive, unharmed.”

“Agreed.” It’s a half-truth: she’ll make the effort not to hurt it, but if it’s headed her way she’s going to shoot. Not like shooting will do any good, but it’ll make her feel better. Coming back from this misadventure still even half sane will prove miracles actually happen. The fact that Helen’s still so stable (though looking for this kind of trouble certainly raises a few flags) after five nights is simultaneously terrifying and astounding.

“We have some planning to do.” Helen finishes her drink. She slides off the stool and winces again, placing a careful hand over her ribs.

Ellen reaches under the bar and pulls out a prescription bottle of painkillers. It’s a terrible idea with the scotch, but if Helen hasn’t gone totally around the bend after nearly a week of hunting the same horror, she can handle a bit of mixing. She tosses the bottle to Helen, who catches it one handed. “It’s closing time, I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Oh, by the way,” Helen pauses by the door to the stairs and turns around. “You might want to tell them to avoid the forest. The werewolf attacks you’ve had recently are because your local pack is breeding.” She disappears up the stairs.

Ellen blinks. “Should’ve talked to her sooner.” She kicks out the remaining hunters, passing along Helen’s advice though she knows they’ll ignore it (hunting while drunk is a treasured pastime of this particular crowd of fools), and promises to be open for medical help if they need it. After locking up, she takes a deep breath and climbs the stairs.

If she makes it out of this nonsense alive, she’s gonna start believing in angels.


End file.
